Chapter 26 #2
I picked up another sheet.
A handwritten note had been clipped to it.
D. O'Brien requested meeting with G. Harrow re: false occupancy declarations. Refused access to resident registry pending foundation counsel.
Another dated three days later:
Harrow requests all copies returned.
Then another in Da's handwriting:
No.
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
That was my father in its purest form: one word carrying an entire argument and absolutely no interest in negotiating it.
Skye saw it too.
"He really was stubborn."
"You have no idea."
"I have some idea."
I gave her a look.
She wisely returned to the papers.
The Harrow box contained correspondence.
Most had been printed from email or fax, the language polite enough to hide the threat beneath it.
Mr. O'Brien, continued retention of Foundation documents outside authorized channels presents unnecessary complications.
Mr. O'Brien, your concerns have been reviewed and found to be based upon incomplete understanding of our residential ministry.
Mr. O'Brien, I strongly recommend considering the effect unfounded allegations may have upon colleagues, families, and community partners.
The final word stopped me.
Families.
I read the sentence again.
Skye did too.
"That's a threat."
"Aye."
There was no reason to pretend otherwise.
I turned the page.
Da's reply had been handwritten across the printed email.
If you wanted me to stop asking questions, you should have given honest answers.
My eyes burned.
I heard him saying it.
Could practically see the expression he'd have worn while writing it.
Skye rested one hand on the desk, close to mine but not touching.
We opened the box dated the week before the murders.
Inside was a notebook.
A packet of photographs.
A folded road map.
And one envelope addressed in Da's handwriting.
IF SOMETHING HAPPENS
I couldn't touch it.
Skye didn't either.
For several seconds, the entire investigation disappeared beneath those three words.
My father had known this was far beyond the possibility that something might be wrong or that Harrow was simply difficult. He had understood enough of the danger to prepare for the possibility that something could happen to him—or to us.
To us.
"Callum."
"Don't."
Skye went quiet.
I hated myself for the sharpness immediately.
"Sorry."
"You don't have to apologize."
"Aye, I do."
I stared at the envelope.
"Open it."
She looked at me.
"You sure?"
"No."
But I picked it up anyway.
The paper had yellowed faintly along one edge.
Inside were four handwritten pages.
The first began without greeting.
If this is being read because I have failed to put matters right myself, then the people connected to Covenant Renewal and its predecessor trusts should be treated as dangerous.
Gideon Harrow has attempted to recover records showing concealed residents, unlawful confinement, false medical documentation, reassigned identities, and transfers between properties in Ireland and Britain.
I believe these practices extend beyond the properties I have personally reviewed.
My hands started shaking.
I kept reading.
I have made duplicates and separated them. Some remain here. Others have been placed elsewhere. Finn knows only enough to retrieve one packet if I am unable to do so myself. He does not know the contents and should not be involved further.
Seeing Finn's name made the room tilt around me, and when Skye's hand closed around my forearm, I didn't merely allow the contact this time; I needed it.
"Jesus."
My brother hadn't stumbled blindly into Da's investigation. Declan had trusted him with a packet—not the truth and not enough information to understand the danger surrounding it, but enough to retrieve something if the worst happened.
And Finn had died near the study.
I forced myself to continue.
I have not told Siobhan, Maeve, Rory, or Finn the full extent of what I have found because Harrow has made clear that family may be used as leverage. I believed keeping them outside the matter would protect them. I am no longer certain that was correct.
My vision blurred over my own name.
Rory. This time the name wasn't sitting inside a police file or being spoken by someone remembering the man I had once been. My father had written it himself only days before he died.
Skye's grip tightened.
I read the final paragraph twice before the meaning reached me.
Two unfamiliar vehicles have passed the house repeatedly this week.
One followed Rory from the village yesterday before turning away near the coast road.
If they are watching the family, then this has gone beyond intimidation.
I have arranged for Siobhan and the children to stay elsewhere if the vehicles return, but I will not abandon the evidence.
If anything happens here, it should not be treated as random violence or robbery. They will come for the records.
I stopped breathing.
One followed Rory.
The words tore straight through fifteen years of certainty.
Skye took the page when my fingers loosened enough that I nearly dropped it.
"They were watching you."
I stared at nothing.
"If I'd been home..."
My voice sounded wrong.
"If I'd stayed that night..."
I couldn't finish.
Every version of the past I'd built depended on the belief that my absence had left them vulnerable.
But if those men had been watching me too, if they had followed me from the village and already knew where everyone in the family was, then the attack had never depended upon whether I happened to walk out after an argument.
Skye understood before I said it.
"You might have been killed with them."
I shook my head.
"No."
"Rory."
"No."
I stepped away from the desk.
The hidden archive suddenly felt far too narrow, as though the walls had moved inward and taken half the available air with them.
"They could've come another night."
"Yes."
"I could've heard them."
"Maybe."
"I could've—"
"What? Stopped an organized team that was already surveilling your family?"
Her voice remained steady.
I looked at her.
She wasn't trying to comfort me.
She was forcing me to look at the same evidence I would have demanded anyone else accept.
"They planned it."
The words came out barely above a whisper.
Skye nodded.
"Yes."
"They didn't come because I left."
"No."
"They were already watching."
"Yes."
I looked toward the letter.
My father had known enough to write it down.
Had known enough to make copies.
Had known enough to worry about the cars following me.
And still none of us had left.
Maybe because there hadn't been time.
Maybe because Da had believed he could fix it.
Maybe because O'Brien men apparently came by stupidity honestly.
My knees hit the chair before I realized I'd moved.
I sat.
For fifteen years, guilt had been cruel but simple enough to reduce into two facts I never questioned: I left, and they died. I had treated the order of those events as proof that one had caused the other.
Now a dead man's handwriting sat on the table telling me the violence had been moving toward our house before I ever walked out.
Skye crouched in front of me.
"Look at me."
I did.
She didn't use Rory this time because she really didn’t need to.
"This doesn't erase that you wish you'd answered your mother's call."
"I know."
"It doesn't erase the fight."
"I know."
"It doesn't make you happy you were gone."
"No."
"But it changes what happened."
My throat tightened.
"Aye."
"They came here for Declan's evidence."
"Aye."
"And based on this letter, if you'd been home, they were already prepared for you to be part of whatever happened."
I closed my eyes.
That truth was almost harder to bear than guilt.
Guilt had given me something to do with the dead by convincing me that punishment had purpose. I could stay alone, refuse to build anything permanent, and make sure nobody ever stood close enough to become another person I might fail.
If I hadn't caused it—
If surviving hadn't been a betrayal—
Then I'd spent fifteen years paying a debt nobody had asked me to owe.
"I don't know what to do with that."
Skye's voice softened.
"You don't have to know today."
I opened my eyes.
She was still there.